The shape of things to come
by Hope Calaris
Summary: Yet as his body moved in the direction of the fireplace, he felt like drowning, only this time it was his mind gasping for air. Missing scene for BUABS.


**Summary:** Yet as his body moved in the direction of the fireplace, he felt like drowning, only this time it was his mind gasping for air. Missing scene for BUABS.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them, I wouldn't sit here and write fanfiction, I would do ... somthing else.

**Dedication: **This one was written for Tempest in the course of the SFTCOL(AR)S Summer Fic Exchange Round Three. It's not exactly what you wrote down in your prompt, yet I hope you enjoy it nevertheless!

**Author's notes:** Thanks to Faye and Kaly for the beta, for pointing out that German words don't belong in an English text and for reassuring me that I didn't confuse them with the way I tell the story. As always, any mistakes left are my very own.

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**The shape of things to come**

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**Fabens, West Texas**

The sun was blinding and hot as it beat down on the dust-covered ground when he left the shabby diner, four burgers (two with extra onions), fries and two pieces of apple pie in a bag. He wiped his sweat-soaked bangs out of his eyes and cursed (not for the first time) Dean, who had insisted on pie (and that Sam get them their food). What had been supposed to be a walk around the corner had developed into a longer journey to find a diner where pie hadn't mysteriously sold out before lunch. And, on top of that, Sam already could imagine the bitching he would receive from Dean for getting his lunch so late.

_But you have to admit his bitching has style_, a voice drifted through the glimmering air.

His head turned around so fast he was surprised he didn't pull any muscles. (And he couldn't count the ways Dean would make fun of him if he returned from a simple food run with a pulled muscle.) No one was in sight. Just him and a sidewalk that had seen better days judging by the weeds crowding over it. He shook his head and was tempted to return to the diner to buy a drink since the heat obvisiously was playing tricks with his mind.

_Shouldn't you know better? With all the years of training and hunting?_

"Wha-" He didn't get any further with all his senses exploding in a cacophony of pain.

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He did nothing but breathe when he returned from the darkness, and even that hurt.

"Nice of you to join me."

Something about the way the voice sounded was weird, out of place, but also strangely familiar.

"You don't get it, do you?"

Now the voice had changed to a mocking tone and he wondered why he couldn't see its owner when it came to him that his eyes were closed. With some difficulty he opened them, just to stare into a fire. Red mingled with yellow and orange in a bizarre dance and threatened to steal his breath from him. (_Can't be, can't be_, he chanted in his mind.)

Touch came to him a moment later and he recognized the feel of wooden panels under his hand and face. He was lying on a floor and the fire wasn't on the ceiling, but in a fireplace. (Ridiculous relief washed over him.)

His body slowly sat up, knees bumping and hands scraping the panels as if he had forgotten how long his limbs were and how to coordinate them. Eventually he rose from the floor, lacking his usually grace, to stare into the fire. Delayed Sam's foggy mind registered that it wasn't his will that had gotten him to stand. He had been too occupied with the fire not being _that_ fire, he hadn't even thought about moving – but he had moved nevertheless. (He suddenly remembered a gun full of rock salt, him but not _him_ pulling the trigger and hurt looks and defied apologies afterwards.)

"Sammy, Sammy … you don't mind me calling you Sammy, do you? Since there's no big brother around to call you that." He needed a moment to recognize the voice he heard as his own.

"Not your brightest day, is it?" He laughed, no, his voice laughed. (Why didn't this make any sense?) He tried to look around to see who was in the room with him, but his stare stayed transfixed on the light emitted from the flickering fire.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy," his voice said, and he didn't want to comply. (But he did.)

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When he came to, sunrays filtered through curtains long void of any color into a kitchen he didn't remember entering. Exhaustion with an unknown cause crept over him and pain lingered in every part of his body as an echo of an event he couldn't recall. (He tried, yet his thoughts seemed to get lost in a big hole every time he wanted to gather them.) He saw smoke curling into odd forms in the dull light. For some moments he watched it dissolve into nothingness before he noticed the cigarette in his hand. His sluggish mind needed a second to comprehend its meaning before he coughed up his lungs (he had never ever smoked before in his life).

_No._

He forced his body to still its movement and listen, but no further sound reached his ears. Silently, he rose from a worn chair and made his way through the small dusty kitchen, waiting for an opponent to show its face. When no one appeared, he stopped on the door to the next room. It was empty but for his own traces left in the dust where he had lain, and the beautifully carved marble fireplace, still alit by fire. (_Who needed a freaking fire in the middle of August in Texas of all places?_) Thick dark curtains shut the sunny day out and the air lay heavy on his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his back and suddenly he wished he had bought that drink back at the diner. (He really should put out the fire.)

The ringing of the cell in his pocket broke through the silence around him. He got it out and smiled in relief when he saw it was Dean's number. Then his arm went slack and the cell fell unceremoniously to the floor. He stared at his hand, then at the cell on the ground, still ringing. He wanted to pick it up, to tell Dean he was okay (well, at least he wasn't dead), yet his body refused to cooperate.

_That's more to my liking. I swear, that blond chick wasn't as difficult as you._

Recognition dosed him like a rush of cold water.

"Meg?"

_Took you long enough, Sammy._

His eyes widening in horror, he did the first thing that came to his mind.

"Pater noster qui es in caelis … "

Yet as his body moved in the direction of the fireplace, he felt like drowning, only this time it was his mind gasping for air.

"Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum."

_Is that the way to greet an old friend?_

He saw his left hand grip the poker leaning against the wall, and he fought with all he had but still he held the poker into the blazing heat.

"Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra."

The black of the iron turned into angry red.

_That won't help, Sammy. I didn't climb out of hell so you can send me back with a simple Latin phrase._

"Panem nostrum catidadianum da nobis hodie."

He knew it was too late when the hot iron touched his arm and pain overrode all other feelings and thoughts.

"Et dimitte nobis …," his voice died away, while his mind was consumed with pain and the cheering laughter of Meg.

"And now we will go find that brother of yours," his voice said, but it was no longer his to control.

_No, not Dean, please ..._

And then his mind went blank and darkness welcomed him into its arms.

- fin


End file.
